


of sense and sensuality

by whistleafblower



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (off-screen) - Freeform, Character Study, Clubbing, Drinking, Gen, M/M, One Night Stands, Prince of Heart God Tier, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28053492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whistleafblower/pseuds/whistleafblower
Summary: dirk goes clubbing on the weekends, and he swears it has nothing to do with forgetting himself for a while.in fact, it has everything to do with remembering just who he really is.
Relationships: (former), Jake English/Dirk Strider
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	of sense and sensuality

**Author's Note:**

> every place is a temple if you know who you're praying to. 
> 
> every thought is a prayer if you mean it, every breath a sermon on its own. 
> 
> and the god of sense and sensuality likes this nightclub the best.

it's something not at all unusual in dirk's regular life, to get to this point.

it's become a habit, really, he finds himself thinking. the light from the neon coursing through the signs from the front of the club reminds him of roxy for a fleeting moment. it's fittingly pink and blasts into his pupils even through the dark of his shades, reflects mutely off the black leather of his pants. bright off the metal shining off his jacket. rose got him this a few years back. said it had kanaya's seal of approval, said it'd fit him like a glove.

it's comfortable.

he's not here to look for comfort.

he walks up to the line and stands right behind the last person in it. he's in no rush and this way he gets to take in what the night's got to offer this time at his own leisure.   
men walk by and stare without stopping. he stares back, shameless, and tilts back, hands in his pockets. go on, look. 

„like what you see?“, he says to one that almost trips over himself trying to get a good look in before continuing on toward the entrance.

„i'm not, i'm- sorry, man, i-“ and he falls silent. looks down. walks a bit faster.

dirk knows what he's got. the self hatred runs strong even after all this time, but it's been years of discovering himself and talking to his friends, to his pseudotherapist daughter, whose continuous snark ended up having a far more positive effect than what either of them had hoped for. 

a prince finally settling in on his throne at the ripe old age of twenty five.

a god of soul, of heart, of sense and sensuality.

his path of discovery first led him to places like this club years back, when they were still mapping out earth c's parameters and he was the one tripping over himself, shaking like a leaf in the line. pretending he isn't one of the Creators, pretending he isn't Dirk Strider.

he'd put in itchy contact lenses, come far more dressed than he is now. he'd keep his hair in his face, head low. he'd limit himself to a few looks, a few drinks, and maybe a spin or two on the dancefloor if he felt particularly brave that night, and then he'd run back home the long way to burn some of the incoming panic attack off preemptively. 

he'd find himself sitting on the floor of his hallway, only a few feet away from the door where he dropped and fell like he'd been shot. he'd clutch at his neck, feeling for the phantom thick corded scarring from his numerous decapitations, and he'd wish to reopen it himself.

and come next week, he'd get dressed and do it all over again.

now, he practically owns the place.

everyone knows the Creator is here every Saturday night on the dot, everyone can recognize Dirk Fucking Strider as he walks up to the line. he knows that all he has to do is nod his head toward the bouncer and the red sea of faces with makeup lit aflame by neon would part for him in an instant.

he's seen a new light shine on his personality, on his looks. he's not going to bow his head anymore.

and he's going to go after what he wants.

the lost man looks to be a bit older than he is, but he's definitely kept a tiny bit of boyish charm. dark haired, dark skinned, black rimmed spectacles heavy on the bridge of his nose. he reminds him of-

no the fuck he doesn't, strider.

he is no one to you, dirk tells himself, and it is true. he really is no one to him, no familiar face to place, no familiar walk, no familiar curve of a body he's gotten to know well in the tombs of his land where the air was so heavy with noble gas the masks always kept getting in the way whenever-

\-----he stepped outside. nothing to remember. nothing to forget.

nothing to think of but the line in front of him and the beautiful man who'd passed him earlier.

he got to the front. the bouncer takes in the stature of his Creator and doesn't bow per dirk's earlier request, lets him walk right in.

the music washes loud over his ears. he relishes it quietly.

breathing in deep brings a world of perfumes, of souls all joined in one beautiful night, an evening to enjoy and a weekend to be talked about come the beginning of the workweek. no one here has a nametag, no one here has a face you'd recognize on the morning train, and even gods can enjoy a lick of anonymity before the sunrise comes.  
he walks straight to the bar.

his drink is already waiting for him, a vodka soda with the orange flavoured fanta left out to go flat the night before. 

double.  
goes down smooth, and his mind swims for just as long as he lets it.

heart players can't get wasted unless they want to. drinking is a soulful activity just as related to the consumer as it is to the act itself, a mess of emotion and neurotransmitters and blood pumping, pumping, right through his heart and right round his carotids.

the scarring makes the blood hiccup in his neck, fashions a noose round his throat for a nanosecond with every heartbeat. he closes his eyes and lets his head sway with the beat of the sound, a deep boom through his ears and cardiovascular system. he takes control, slows the beat inside to a pleasant but life-sustaining 60 beats per minute.

it slows the run of the alcohol just right to how he likes it, lets the sugar stick to his insides just long enough to give him a buzz to sharpen the edge of the vodka. he drinks from his glass once again and dedicates this sip to his best friend and her nine years of sobriety. he knows she still has days where she'd kill to be in his place, and so he doesn't whisper a word to her about his weekend activities.

vodka was her favourite drink.

he'll have another to honour her being in his life, happy and sober as ever.

and he'll lick the glass clean.

-

he's swaying in his spot and looking through the crowd, but they're all spectres to him. he's looking out for his current number one, the man he locked eyes with outside. he'll do just fine for tonight.

more than fine. 

he'll scratch an itch dirk didn't think was still capable of bothering him. 

jake's been doing plenty of self discovery all these years, too. and it's been quite a road he's been going down, too – a massive corporate empire that puts what the old skaianet used to be to shame, without the tainted breath of the batterwitch wafting down its halls like crockercorp had. women and men vying for his attention at every turn. no misery, no miserable bastards there to weigh him down.

no one to move his mind around like a chess piece.  
truly free, truly happy.

dirk promised not to meddle in his affairs ever again. 

jake might have been too shitfaced to remember that promise dirk had made at his bedside, but dirk knows matters of the heart are serious business, and promises are to be kept, so he let himself enjoy that last night he'd ever spend sharing a bed with the whirlwind of adventure and anxiety that was jake english, melted into his embrace, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

dreams can happen when you're awake as well. 

his glass has long since been refilled and drained, and he shook the cobwebs from his eyes, leaving the empty glass at the bar where he'd picked it up in the first place. he ventures out into the dancing crowd.

he closes his eyes, and opens his palms. allows himself to feel the soulstuff pouring in and out the crowd. 

you see, to be a destroyer of soul doesn't necessarily need to carry a negative connotation at all times.

all craftsmen, all gods - are destroyers just as much as they are Creators. 

to fulfill the creative need one must be willing to cut, to chip away until a new form emerges from the shapeless lump of matter. a cut of gemstone is crafted in no other way but by taking a sharp tool to the brusque edge and honing it into something brilliant. a marvel to let in light and reflect right into the soul of the buyer. 

all swords are beaten into submission, metal slammed into obedience with strategic strikes of a hammer, burned and beaten and bent, violence woven deep into a craft so noble and personal. edges of a blade to protect a hearth, grates of a gate to mark the entrance to a homestead. pans and dishes to bring warm food to friends and family alike.

a fire of a forge that feeds and flays, protects and pierces. 

in fire, new life is born - and everyone needs a spark to offset the dullness of the daily routine.

it is with this in mind that he walks through the crowd and truly, deeply feels the strings of soul stretching out from them all, one by one, and he untangles. he destroys, and thus creates.

his craft is one that resonates like a sound within the confines of the body of any stringed instrument, echoes through the speakers of this club.

he snaps the cord of inhibition leashing the shy girl to the eastern wall of the central area, and she looks through the haze as if she were born again. no longer controlled by societal norms, by built in shame. no longer feeling burning gazes, but seeing welcoming faces. seeing a thrumming heart shown to her by a Creator who spares no smile nor word as he slips past her like a whisper, only a soft glow trailing behind him.

she prays to the Soul, and she begins to sway.

he unbraids the tethers connecting two people who arrived here together, feels their souls grow lighter with each strand he undoes from the complex knotting. not all strands are made of cotton or silk, some are woven with barbs and thick untreated hemp. abrasive.

abusive.

he has no patience for such behaviour. 

he brings it to ruin, and the man feels a keen absence of the soul he's grown so dependent on, a deep sadness and rage. the person he was with feels themself grow lighter, and they rise from the seat they were growing roots into, their chest thrumming with a hummingbird beat of sweet freedom. they feel an itch in their face, a blush blossoming into their cheeks and disappearing into their beard, down their neck and into a shirt lit up by strobe light and soul alike. 

they blink, tears fall, and they know.

the soul sings out to him, and the prince knows he is loved.

the void of his own soul cannot catch the light. it is to painful to do so from his current position.  
he is fulfilled, he is fortunate.  
he is loved. he is wanted.  
he wants.  
he cannot have-

-he can make do.

he continues his search, and continues his craft, keeps his mind open and his palms feeling, fingertips reaching out to find.

him.

he sees him with his physical eyes from where he stands to the side and dirk is aware of this before he even opens his own behind his shades.  
his eyes are pinkbrowngoldgreengreengreen-

-blue.

impossibly blue. he's standing so close and dirk can see the colour even through the relative darkness they are both shrouded in. the music suddenly grows quieter, pales in comparison to dirk's 94 beats per minute. he breathes, seizes his own heart, and strangles it into a manageable 80. 

„hey.“

„hey there, you're the guy from outside, right? sorry for staring like an idiot, i do that sometimes. i'm michael. what's your name?“

„no need to apologize. in fact, i'd like to get to know you better.“

the man looks down for a second and dirk keeps his gaze trained on his face. clean shaven. gel in his hair to enhance the curl it naturally holds, not tame it. he's a good person, not a whiff of mean in his bones, his soul singing with embarrassment, but undercut with something bold. heated.

arousal.  
he finds dirk attractive, but cannot spit it out. 

„i'm really, just-it's my first time coming to a place like this-„

truth. 

„-i was supposed to be meeting friends but they stood me up-“ 

truth.

„-and i honestly don't know what i'm doing here, if i'm being real with you-“

half-truth. 

come on, dirk thinks, you know you want something. you just need a push.

he knows what he needs to do. he reaches a hand out directly for faster access.

„wait, what are you doing?“ his face looks strained to frown. he doesn't do it often. 

„i won't touch you unless you let me, i promise. i've seen the way you looked at me outside, and i see the way you look at me now. i want what you want, and i can help you feel it right. if you don't want any of this, just tell me, and i'll leave you alone. you won't see me again.“

dirk means every word, and is relieved to see the frown shift to something less combative and scared to something more conflicted, confused- and then it leaves completely.

he smiles warmly at dirk and their souls blink at eachother. a memory is forming. an emotion is attaching itself to it, beading to a strip of fabric. the shine of the bead complements the satin below it well, and dirk lets it happen. michael cups his face, brings them together in a half embrace. their noses brush against eachother in an almost kiss, and dirk holds onto his arms. 

his breath smells like mint gum.

(jake almost had a heart attack when he first tasted jane's gingermint cookies. he said it felt like flaming ice.)

dirk feels the heat pool in between his organs and simmer, quiet and low.

„let's go somewhere quieter.“

dirk can only bring himself to nod, and be led to the private lounge in the back. a nod indicating „he's with me“ is enough for the security guard to let him through and right into a private, secluded area.

the seating is violet velvet. dersite royalty and his old pyjamas, dark skies filled with horror and murder intrigues. he misses it deeply. 

michael sits first and he boldly doesn't take any other seat but his lap. facing him directly, he takes his shirt by the collar and pulls him close for a kiss. 

michael shifts beneath him and he can feel it.

he wants to feel it.

he grinds down hard and slow, elicits a strangled noise from this lover's throat. the reverb sings right into dirk's own mouth, echoes around his brain and into his own dick.

he throws his head back for a second, and lets himself come undone, seam by seam, spools of his own soul-thread falling in a mess at his feet.

it won't last. he knows. he doesn't care - not tonight.

tonight is for the stars and tonight is for oblivion.  
heart in void, mind at ease.  
thought free, carved free of humming and noise that anxieties bring,

blessed

fucking

silence.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote in a new style to try and get my brain to shut up for a while. i can't write smut because of my own history, but i tried to get myself to try new things either way. hope you like it, dear reader.


End file.
